


there are no neutrals there

by Samizdat



Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Great Depression, Harlan County War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:50:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samizdat/pseuds/Samizdat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1931, and times are hard in Harlan county. The coal companies greet the great depression with evictions and wage cuts, while gun thugs and lawmen face up against starving miners and their families. When Boyd Crowder shoots a company man dead on the streets of Evarts township, Deputy Sheriff Raylan Givens is forced to choose which side he's on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there are no neutrals there

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitmarlowed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmarlowed/gifts).



Raylan comes to work one Monday morning to find the station empty of everyone but Sheriff Napier and Art Mullen, the big shot Deputy U.S. Marshal the companies brought down from Lexington when things began to go tits up back at the end of 1930. Mullen is sitting in the Sheriff’s chair with his feet up on the desk, chewing on an unlit cigar. Napier’s glaring at him like he wants to weld the cigar to the back of Mullen’s skull, but when he hears the door click he transfers the glare to Raylan without a twitch.

Raylan hesitates, one hand on the doorway. “Did I miss something?”

“You're late,” says Napier.

“Am I,” says Raylan. “Where is everyone?”

The marshal raises his eyebrows and leans back, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Manhunt,” he says laconically.

Raylan blinks. “Wasn't aware we had one.”

“We wouldn't,” Napier says pointedly, “Along of how the company men intimated they would be perfectly happy to take the matter into their own hands, leaving us with nothing to do but sit around smoking, but Mr Marshal here decided, having brought his merry men all the way from Lexington to the hollers of our fair county, they might as well get some exercise to justify the trip.”

In the few months Mullen’s been around, Raylan’s grown used to his language, and it sounds like Napier’s quoting; he’s never been so eloquent of his own accord. Then the rest of the words sink in. So the company men were setting up to go after their man with a posse of gun thugs, but Mullen objected. Napier doesn't like this, because Napier doesn't like Mullen. Then again, Napier doesn't like Raylan, either, on account of some deal he had fifteen-odd years ago with Raylan’s daddy, a grudge he hasn't let go of even when the old man’s been in the ground these three years gone. Raylan doesn't much like Napier, for that matter. It doesn't seem Mullen does either, but then Mullen seems to actually give a shit about the law, not just those parts of it from which he can profiteer.

“We don't get paid to sit around smoking,” says Mullen, chewing on the cigar. “No, what am I saying? I get paid to sit around smoking; my boys get paid to do their damn jobs.” He starts patting his pockets, looking for matches.

“Just so we're clear,” Raylan says, “Who is it we're hunting?”

“Fellow named Boyd Crowder,” Mullen says. “You may know him. Lives down in Evarts township.”

“Know him?” Napier’s voice is gleeful, because he's a little prick with big ideas who holds his grudges closer than he would his wife, if he had one, if any woman would have him. “Givens and Crowder go way back.”

Mullen looks up at that, a matchbook in his hand. “Then no doubt he'll have some ideas of where to start looking,” Mullen says, his eyebrows drawing down.

Raylan waits a moment to be sure Napier’s done talking, but he seems to have taken Mullen’s point - finally - and backed down. “I realise I'm going to regret asking, but what is it Crowder's supposed to have done?”

“Oh, Givens,” Napier says, shaking his head. “Ain’t you heard? Your boy Crowder shot a company man dead last night on the steps of the First Unity Baptist Church.”

Mullen strikes his match on the rough wood of Napier’s desk and finally lights his cigar. The smoke rises up in heavy curls.

* * *

  
It's like a joke: how do you find a bunch of lawmen in Harlan County? You follow the sound of breaking furniture. Raylan catches up with the rest of the lawmen in Evarts proper, making the rounds of Boyd’s known associates, known acquaintances, known enemies, and every man who’s out of work, which is most of them. Evarts is one of the few towns where miners can find lodgings when they’ve been kicked out of the company towns, and too damn many miners have been kicked out of the company towns in the last two years. There are too many people in Evarts for this time of day. Women in worn clothing, children with stick-thin arms big bellies, and too damn many men, standing silent or shouting profanities, watching the lawmen and gun thugs come through and search the town like they think Boyd’ll be hiding in someone’s washtub or under their bed.

It’s too damn quiet, and the fight they’ve been calling the Battle of Evarts happened only a year ago. If something goes wrong, they’re going to be facing a replay today.

“Say, Gutterson. Who was the man Boyd shot?” Raylan asks in an undertone.

“Man by the name of Kincaid,” Gutterson drawls, “Going on fifty, face like a mastiff dog, worked security for Black Pike. That's why their boys are after blood, of course.” From the way he’s looking around, hand never straying too far from his holster, Tim Gutterson has the same instincts as Raylan. Gutterson’s one of Mullen’s men, one of the few new lawmen Raylan gets along with, mostly because he's a damn good shot and he doesn't waste time on ego trips. Gutterson spent time in France in the last war, which is shady as hell, because there's no way he was more than seventeen when the armistice was signed.

“Of course.”

“You don't believe it?”

Raylan shrugs. “One way or another, Boyd Crowder's been behind just about every aggravation Black Pike and the rest has suffered in the last few years. Kincaid's as handy an excuse as any to remove him from being able to cause further aggravation.”

Gutterson look is once part curious, one part dubious, one part couldn't-care-less. “That's some epitaph for the late Kincaid,” he says. “Did he piss in your coffee or something?”

“He used to work security at Myrtle Creek, back in the day,” Raylan says. “I did not take to the man, and time did not improve him.”

“Well, he’s dead now, whichever way you slice it.”

“There is that. I don’t suppose you know what happened on Sunday night?”

“Well, it would be easier to tell you if any two stories agreed,” Gutterson drawls. “Late afternoon, Kincaid was inside the church, talking to the preacher. Most folk around were at their own homes, not in the streets. Kincaid stepped out around sundown; preacher came out of the church an hour or so after and stumbled on his body on the steps.”

“Preacher didn’t hear the gunshots? --No, First Unity, right. The preacher’s near deaf.”

Gutterson nods. “Kincaid took two bullets in the chest, one in the head. No-one there to witness, but some people nearby heard the gunshots and one fellow said he saw Crowder walking away from the church around the right time.”

“Is that right?”

“Mm-hm. The moment he breathed the word Crowder, everyone else stopped talking. Suddenly, no-one had heard a gunshot, or seen anyone nearby, or seen anything at all.” Gutterson looks over at Raylan. “Word is, you know Crowder pretty well.”

“He used to work at Myrtle Creek, too.”

Gutterson looks at him sidelong. He’s met Boyd, though he didn’t much like him. Boyd had had too much fun winding him up. But he’s seen Boyd in Raylan’s company enough to know that theirs is more than a passing acquaintance. “Near about everyone I asked told me that you were the man to come to if’n I wanted to learn more about Boyd Crowder,” he says.

Raylan sighs. “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “Probably the only one that’ll talk to you, though.”

Gutterson gives an expansive gesture. “Go ahead,” he says.

“Boyd and I dug coal together when we were nineteen,” Raylan says. “I quit after a time, having developed an aversion after a collapse in Myrtle Creek. Spent some time in Lexington and West Virginia. Boyd joined the army in ‘17, spent time as a gunner in France and Flanders, where he got involved with International Workers of the World. The local unions weren’t radical enough for him when he got back." He sighs. "Crowder's been a part of every strike and wildcat action in the county for the last ten years. Shot a fair number of scabs and company men, though none we could prove. Been shot at more’n once hisself, but the man’s got more lives than a cat. I’d wager good money he was involved when one of the Black Pike mines over in Joseph’s Valley was dynamited last year, and when a dozen-odd company houses union men’d been moved out of were burned down, but again, nothing that could be proved.”

“I hear tell he’s a communist,” Gutterson says.

Raylan laughs. “Man I know, he says to me, ‘In this county, if you’re hungry you’re a red; and if you says you’re hungry, you get arrested for criminal syndicalism.’” He shrugs. “Lot of hungry people in Harlan, these past few years.”

“Sounds like you afford them some sympathy.”

“I been hungry in my day."

"And Crowder?" 

Raylan shrugs again. "Since 1929 the mines’ve got to working slack, until this last year when most miners were working but one day in the week. Hard to feed a family on one day’s wage, but any time a soup kitchen gets opened up, orders come to shut it down. Some of the store owners hereabouts, they’ve a sense of Christian charity, they don’t like seeing kids go hungry, they give a little food here, a little there. Of course, only half of that food comes in what you might call legitimate donations, and that is where Boyd comes in. Those store owners in Harlan less inclined toward Christian charity frequently find themselves donating at gunpoint, both gun and point being Boyd's.”

Gutterson hums and gives a short nod. “You know where one of these soup kitchens might be?” he asks.

* * *

  
Raylan does in fact know of one those soup kitchens, though it’s not advertised as such. This one has been around all of a week; it’ll be closed down before another passes, most likely. It’s the back room of a ramshackle old building that used to a store. Paint is peeling from the walls, an old dog asleep in the sun outside. From the state of the place, some lawmen have already been by to poke and pry.

Rachel Brooks is at the soup kitchen. Ms Brooks is kin in some manner Raylan’s never been able to determine to one of the dozen or so men from Noble's Holler who work the deep mine, and like everyone Raylan’s ever met from Noble’s - like anyone on the side of the miners, these days - she’s wary of lawmen. She barely comes to Raylan's shoulder, but she stands as though she’s six feet tall. Raylan suspects she has brothers, that she’s learned to stand as she does. “Ms Brooks, if we might take a moment of your time,” he says, “We’re looking for Boyd Crowder.”

“I did hear that,” she says. “Crowder ain’t here, just so’s you know.”

“We didn’t reckon he was.”

“What d’you want him for?”

Gutterson shifts. “We heard as how he shot a man last night,” he drawls.

“What, you think he didn’t?”

“I think it don’t much matter one way or the other,” Raylan says. “The men looking for him aren’t going to be in the mood to do him any kindnesses.”

“And you are?” Ms Brooks couldn’t look more sceptical if she tried.

“I guess when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound too believable,” Gutterson says.

Raylan concedes the point. “Ms Brooks,” he says. “From what we hear, Boyd Crowder shot a man named Kincaid last night, on the steps of the First Unity down the road. You may understand how this concerns us, for if a man is not safe on the premises of the Lord, where might he be?”

“That does beg the question,” Gutterson says, “Of whether the church steps are a part of the church.”

“Be that as it may. Ms Brooks, we were hoping to ask you if you might know the whereabouts of Mr Crowder, as I believe he is associated with this here organisation.”

Ms Brooks purses her lips. “Now, what organisation would that be? This is but a small dining hall and gathering place, such as there are many in the state of Kentucky.”

“Not so many run by the communists,” Gutterson mutters.

“The lease here is held by a Mrs Bennett,” Ms Brooks says, “Whom I believe to be a Baptist, much like the congregation of the First Unity. You might could inquire of her.”

Ms Brooks knows about Bennetts and Givenses. Gutterson doesn’t, though, so he just looks puzzled when Raylan starts to laugh. He turns it into a cough at the last minute. “Thank you, Ms Brooks,” he manages after a moment. “Perhaps my friend Gutterson here will do just that.”

“Per your discussion of the church steps,” Ms Brooks says as they’re going out the door, “I believe they’re generally considered a part of the churchyard, in much the same manner as a cemetery. Thus being in truth the premises of the Lord.”

* * *

  
Raylan sends Gutterson off to talk to the Bennetts and seeks out Ava Crowder. Boyd is a man of no fixed abode since he got kicked out of his company home for criminal syndicalism, that being the term for any protest made against the companies these days, but he spends most nights at Ava's place. By the time Raylan gets to Ava's, the rest of the county lawmen have been and gone, leaving broken railing on the porch and the door torn half of its hinges. He guesses the inside of the house will look much the same, if he ever gets to see it. Ava Crowder is standing in the doorway, body turned barricade. She's holding a shotgun in her hand, but it’s aimed at the ground, not his head, so he ventures to step in closer. “Good morning, Ava. Boyd about?”

“You're late, Sheriff Givens,” says Ava. “Your boys was here already. They tore the place up but good looking for Boyd.”

“So I’m guessing he’s not here, then.”

“Ain't you heard me? Your boys been tearing the damn place up for him, you think he's still here? Boyd!” she yells, suddenly and loud. “Boyd, Sheriff Givens wants a word!” Waits for the echoes to die, spreads her hands and shrugs.

“Jesus, Ava, I was just asking.” He holds up his hands, placatory.

Something tugs at Ava’s skirts. A boy’s head peers around them and ducks back just as quick. She puts a hand on his head, circling his skull. That boy’d hide for most any officer came around, but he knows Raylan, has known him since before the hard times hit and the war-lines got drawn up. Ava’s boy is four years old, scrawny and dirty, his feet wrapped in rags against the hard earth. Ava’s husband is four and a half years dead, and Bo Crowder didn’t die down in the mines. Boyd looks out for them as he can, but times are hard; harder for a widow and orphan child than for most.

Ava shoos the boy back indoors and finally tucks the pistol away in her belt. She steps out into the porch and closes the door behind her, walks down to stand on the bottom step, crossing her arms. “What was it you want Boyd for, anyway?”

Like this, she’s almost taller than him. He tilts his head up, gives her his best smile. “Heard tell Boyd shot a man. Was hoping to ask him some questions ‘bout his disposition yesterday.”

“He was at church,” Ava says. “I don't know about you, Raylan Givens, but we're God-fearing folks in this town.”

“And after church?”

“He was with me.”

“And where is he now?”

“Well, like I said, he ain’t here.”

“You realise that makes it look worse,” Raylan says. “If he didn’t kill the man, why’d he run?”

“Oh, you telling me he should have stayed, with two dozen gun thugs after his blood? That’s the act of a smart man, not a guilty one.”

“Could be it’s the act of a man both smart and guilty,” Raylan points out, but Ava is done talking. She doesn’t blink, just stares Raylan down until he shrugs and steps away. “You see Boyd, you tell him I was asking after him,” he says. “I’ll see you around, Ms Crowder.”

* * *

  
Raylan has a visitor that evening. It’s been a few weeks since he last saw Aunt Helen. She doesn’t like his profession, nor his attitude, nor the way he treated his daddy, and last time she saw him she threatened to tan his hide, which makes it all the more surprising that she’s the one sought him out, as he tells her.

“Don’t mess around, Raylan,” she says. “I came here to talk, as you well know.”

Raylan shrugs. “Come on in.”

Helen stamps through the door as much as she always does, pokes through Raylan’s things with a huffy judgement that’s as familiar as breathing. “Raylan, you gotta stop looking for Boyd Crowder,” she says without preamble.

“I gotta stop doing my job?”

“Your job?”

“My job to catch murderers,” he says.

“Don’t give me that shit. Your job is to do whatever the hell Black Pike tells you to do.”

“And what is it you want me to do, Aunt Helen?”

“If you ain’t gonna do what’s right,” she says, “I want you to leave Harlan.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“You can’t pretend you’re working for the law, Raylan. Not the way Harlan’s been going these past years. You know the way it works. You’re either with the unions, or you’re a gun thug for Sheriff Napier and implicated in all that he does.”

“Goddamn, Helen, do you think I haven’t realised that by now?”

“Oh, I think you’ve realised,” Helen says. “I just don’t think you’ve decided what to do about it yet.”

“But you want me to stop looking for Boyd.”

“I do.”

“And why’s that, Helen?”

“Raylan Givens, I loved you like you were my own,” Helen says. “That’s why I’m giving you this warning. What kind of life d’you think there is round here for the man who kills Boyd Crowder?”

“You think I’m meaning to kill Boyd?”

“You think Black Pike means you to do aught else?”

There’s nothing Raylan can say to that. Helen sees it, and her expression finally eases. “You got to remember which side you’re on, Raylan Givens. That’s all I have to say.”

Helen leaves. Raylan sits for a time, as the light fades out of the sky.

There’s something been preying on his mind, these last few hours. He knew Boyd Crowder, but Boyd knew Arlo, and Arlo used to run whiskey across state lines. Someone’s been using those old whiskey trails since time put Arlo and old Bowman in the ground, and he’s got an inkling he might know who it is.

Raylan’s spent his whole life circling, never more than a state away from home, heels tied to the anchor of a gravestone on a Kentucky hillside. Boyd’s been across the country, been across the ocean, spent time in France and Flanders, but he’s always been as at home in the backwoods and hills of Harlan as anyone.

Helen’s wrong. Raylan could leave Harlan, walk out of the county on his own two feet, but Harlan would always follow him. Won’t nothing change that.

* * *

  
When Raylan makes it to the top of the trailhead, Boyd’s standing in the doorway of the old cabin, head cocked, a gun in his hand. “Raylan Givens,” he says, easy as breathing. “To what do I owe this unexpected surprise?”

Raylan takes a moment to catch his breath. It's a long time since he's been up in the Harlan backwoods. “You know why I'm here, Boyd.”

Boyd's grin is wide as the mouth of a mine. “Why, indeed I do,” he says. “The question is, do you?”

Boyd leads him inside. The cabin is tiny, nothing more than a log shelter to keep the rain off, dirt floor, a few sacks, logs, broken bottles. The sun dropped behind the high ridge of the hills over and hour ago, and it’s dim inside, despite the tiny fire Boyd’s built and the pale light shining through cracks in the log walls. “I’d offer you a drink,” Boyd says, “But your daddy never did leave liquor lying around when there was opportunity to sell or drink.”

“As a lawman, I’d be obliged to refuse.” Raylan hunkers down on a log. “Although between you and me, even lawmen have been known to indulge, despite the unlawful nature of partaking.”

Boyd laughs. Raylan watches him. Then Boyd says, “Now what can I do for Deputy Sheriff Raylan Givens on this fine day?”

“Well, Boyd, I’m here about the death of Kincaid this Sunday night past.”

“Then it wasn’t just that you missed my handsome face?”

“No, I thought I’d go walking Arlo’s whiskey trails for the fun of it,” Raylan says. “Did you shoot the man?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’d think it does.”

“Why, I never thought I would see the day I’d be calling Raylan Givens an idealist,” Boyd says. “Napoleon Bonaparte once said that history is just a set of lies agreed upon. I’ll admit to a certain distaste for the man, but in this instance you must concede he has a point.”

Raylan rubs a hand over his face to conceal a smile. Boyd has always had a way with words, talking in circles around simple facts. It takes a dance to get anything out of him, a push pull of insinuation and asides, with neither truth nor outright lies. “So you’re saying you didn’t kill Kincaid?”

“Now when did I say that?”

“If history is but lies agreed upon, do you not imply that the three bullets in Kincaid’s chest and skull are fictions?”

“I imagine it is a fiction seems most mightily truthful to the late Kincaid,” Boyd allows.

“And is it then also a lie to say that those bullets came to be within the body and bone of the late Kincaid with the assistance of your gun?”

“It would be a lie to say that they did not,” Boyd says.

“You murdered the man.”

“I like to think the world will be better without his presence in it.”

“Murderin' someone is generally agreed to be a criminal act,” Raylan points out.

Boyd sighs. “Tell me, Raylan, how many men’ve you killed in the service of what you believe to be the law?”

“I’m no murderer.”

“And yet the only difference between you and me is that badge you carry. I’ve made peace with that. Have you? You know where the money comes from to pay for your big guns and bullets, your shiny automobiles and your tear gas. They used that stuff on the Hun, in France. I come back, I’m getting it from my own damn countrymen!”

“I know all that, Boyd. I worked it out a long time ago.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

Raylan’s about to answer, but Boyd holds up a hand, cocks his head like a winter crow, and suddenly Raylan hears what Boyd heard: birds crying alarms, the silence of the undergrowth broken by the crackle of footsteps, the distant whuff of dogs.

Boyd’s gun is suddenly in his hand, aimed at Raylan’s chest. “Did you bring them?” he asks.

Slowly, Raylan raises his hands. “No. I swear to God, Boyd, I didn’t know anyone was following me.”

Boyd stares. Then he starts to laugh. Bent over, wiping tears from his eyes with his free hand.

Gun or no gun, Raylan twitches, irritated. “Care to enlighten me as to the source of your amusement?”

Boyd leans back, still grinning. “Well, Raylan; if you didn’t tell them, but they followed you anyway, you have to suppose they had a reason for it.”

It takes a moment. Then, angry at his own slowness, Raylan says, “They think I’m your accomplice.”

“You have to admit, there are compelling reasons for them to have so assumed,” Boyd drawls.

“Sure there are,” Raylan snarls. “There’s you in my daddy’s old cabin, for one.”

“Raylan, Raylan, there’s more’n that! There’s your known dislike of Kincaid, for one, and your friendship with me, for another.”

Boyd is still holding his aim steady on Raylan’s heart. “Are we friends? From where I’m sitting, this don’t look too friendly.”

“You’re also widely known to afford some sympathy to the plight of our struggling miners.” Boyd continues like Raylan never spoke. “And you were not there at the Battle of Evarts in May, were you?”

“I was over in Baxter that day,” Raylan says. “Are you done?”

“I suppose I am.”

“You realise that this time you’ve spent talking means you’re not getting away before the dogs arrive.”

“Well, yes, Raylan; but on the other hand, neither are you.”

“They’re not after me,” Raylan says. Considers this. “At least, not principally.”

Boyd stands, peers through one of the cracks in the cabin. His voice is oddly conversational when he speaks. “Now the way I see it, you got a choice to make here,” he says. “We can draw down, now, you and me. You kill me, you can take your place at the head of the grand parade of gun thugs having vanquished the dirty Red Crowder; I kill you, I’ll most likely die in a hail of bullets obligingly provided by our friends outside; or…”

The dogs are getting closer now, barking excitedly, men’s voices twining harsh around them. “Or?”

“Well,” Boyd says. “That’s up to you, now, ain’t it?” He finally lowers his gun.

"You willing to bet your life on that chance?" -- but Raylan doesn’t pull his gun. There’s a thread of music on his mind, an old song. _Miner's life is like a sailor's, every day his life's in danger. Still he ventures being brave._

Down in a coal mine like Myrtle Creek they follow the seam underground, chipping out of the rock, leaving pillars behind to hold the ceiling. They call ‘em ribs, them pillars. The ribs of the county, them things. Harlan’s ribs. Within them, Harlan’s lungs. Sometimes down in the mines, you can hear her breathe.

And when the seam of coal runs out, they pull out the pillars, one by one, getting every last little scrap of coal out that they can before the roof collapses down on top of them. And if something goes wrong as they strip out the ribs, the roof collapses anyway; that’s what happened in Myrtle Creek, all those years ago. Boyd had heard the groan and trickle of rock before anyone else. Boyd saved Raylan's life, that day down in the mine.

That was the day he swore he’d never set foot in another goddamn coal mine. Raylan is alive today because of that promise, but it’s the promise that brought him here, chasing after a man he’ll grudgingly call a friend with a gun in his hand and a crooked company at his back.

The shouts of the posse are getting louder, almost enough to drown out Boyd’s voice as it drops almost to a whisper. “Everybody knows that the only men the company doesn't do wrong are company men. You a company man, Raylan?”

Raylan sighs. "I guess I never was much of a sheriff." Outside, the last light is fading from the sky. The men have brought torches and gas lanterns to light the woods as they circle the cabin, a dozen or more, pistols and rifles in hand. 

In the darkness of the canon, Boyd's grin is nothing more than his teeth and the glint of light in his eye.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! This fic was inspired in a large part by the book _They Say in Harlan County: An Oral History_ , by Alessandro Portelli. The title of this fic (and the title of that book) come from a song written in Harlan in 1932 by Florence Patton Reece, "Which Side Are You On?":
> 
> My daddy was a miner  
> And I'm a miner's son  
> And I'll stick with the union  
> Till every battle's won
> 
> They say in Harlan County  
> There are no neutrals there  
> You'll either be a union man  
> Or a thug for J.H. Blair
> 
> Which side are you on?  
> Which side are you on?
> 
> The song Raylan remembers is another union song, from ca. 1900-1910, "Miner's Lifeguard" or "A Miner's Life":
> 
> Miner's life is like a sailor's  
> 'Board a ship to cross the wave;  
> Every day his life's in danger,  
> Still he ventures being brave.  
> Watch the rocks, they're falling daily,  
> Careless miners always fail;  
> Keep your hands upon the dollar  
> And your eyes upon the scales


End file.
